


In which Vanamonde has a Monday

by Overlord_Bethany



Series: blundering onward [10]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Mechanicsburg is a delightful place, Multi, Post-Canon, also coffee should surprise no one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 06:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11892168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: Van's days are busy enough without "help" from the Heterodyne's consorts.





	In which Vanamonde has a Monday

Monday mornings used to be so quiet in Mechanicsburg. Most people would sleep a bit late after a busy weekend entertaining the tourists. The businesses would take their time opening for the day, and he could sip his coffee in peace. Recently, well…

Just outside the window, six Jägers charged down the street, shouting something about the Biting Ducks as they went. His nose hovering over his cup, Vanamonde von Mekkhan inhaled deeply. The quiet days were gone for good.

He sipped his coffee. It rolled over his tongue, hot, bitter, and bracing. Across the street, the Heterodyne’s personal guard skulked over a rooftop. Where was Violetta headed at this hour?

Honestly, Vanamonde hated sitting at a window. He found a full view of the street rather distracting while he was still trying to get his morning thoughts in order. He took another slow sip of his coffee, and as he did, he glanced toward his usual seat. A curtain still blocked it from view. He struggled to contain his impatience.

His usual appointment chose that moment to slide into the seat opposite him. “Good morning, Seneschal.”

“Sire.” With a smile and a small nod, Vanamonde poured coffee for Tarvek Sturmvoraus.

As expected, his tablemate provided a helpful review of the Jägers’ excitement. “Did you hear that Rubin convinced Admir to unlock the ducks’ nests?”

“I saw them run by a minute ago.” Vanamonde shook his head. “Mikka lost four toes that way.”

“So bloodshed is imminent?” Tarvek stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and took a thoughtful sip.

“Most likely.”

They shared a smile of silent understanding. Vanamonde knew the two of them would have been fast friends anyway, but circumstances had furthered their acquaintance in a way only an attempted assassination could.

“I see the renovation continues.” Tarvek nodded toward the partition that hid nearly half of the cafe. He didn’t mind the window seat, but he knew it annoyed Vanamonde.

“Yes, I think von Zinzer is still crying about it.”

Tarvek shrugged. He cared more about keeping the Heterodyne and young Wulfenbach happy than he did about Moloch von Zinzer’s peace of mind. At least he had his priorities in order. “He’ll get over it.” He placed a small envelope on the table and slid it across to Vanamonde.

That was odd. Usually, exchange of covert information happened after a much longer conversation. Tucking the envelope into his waistcoat, Vanamonde watched Tarvek closely. “I’m sure he will.”

Tarvek sipped his coffee with exactly his usual level of contentment. He signaled to the waitstaff, and he ordered his usual plate of fruit and cheese. Then he also ordered pizzelles and crème fraîche. Stranger and stranger.

“You really should add some snails.”

Tarvek pointed a wedge of pear at him. “You know my position on this. Snails are tasty, but not for breakfast.”

As Vanamonde rarely had any breakfast other than coffee, he couldn’t fault Tarvek for favoring a light meal. He eyed the untouched plate of pizzelles with suspicion.

Tarvek steered the conversation from snails to exports, a small enough leap. Vanamonde tried not to let the untouched food distract him, but he didn’t have much success at it. He sipped his coffee.

Slowly, and at irregular intervals, Tarvek tapped one fingertip on the tabletop as he spoke. It could be a coded message, Vanamonde supposed, remembering Violetta on the rooftop. It could be, but it seemed more like the twitching of a cat’s tail. Either way, it was mesmerizing. And annoying.

Vanamonde ordered another pot of coffee. Tarvek asked for it to be made double-strength.

Who are you expecting? Vanamonde ground his teeth against the question. Few things give Sparks more satisfaction than explaining their own brilliance, and while Tarvek usually displayed more discipline than most, Vanamonde didn’t want to take that chance.

Tarvek poured himself more coffee and stirred in four spoonfuls of sugar. He placed the spoon on his saucer with care, and he lifted his cup to take an experimental sip. He was adding another scoop of sugar when the door swung open, and Gilgamesh Wulfenbach strode into the cafe.

Tarvek didn’t glance up from his coffee.

Gil moved with all the energy and grace of an oversized puppy, but he had a Sparky presence that filled the room in an effortless sort of way the people of Mechanicsburg could not ignore. Vanamonde watched as heads turned, tracking Gil’s progress toward their table. Tarvek sipped his coffee.

Gil dropped into the seat beside Tarvek and reached for one of the pizzelles. With a self-satisfied smirk, Tarvek sat back, watching Vanamonde’s reaction.

“Herr Baron.” Keeping his expression impassive, Vanamonde nodded to Gil. What new game was this?

“Herr von Mekkhan.” Gil scooped crème fraîche onto a pizzelle and stuffed it into his mouth. To Tarvek he said, “This is where you’ve hidden yourself.”

“I’m not hiding. I’m having coffee. In a cafe. Where one does that sort of thing.”

Tarvek placed his coffee cup on the table and pushed it toward Gil, who eyed it with distrust.

“Violetta is looking for you.”

The corners of Tarvek’s lips twitched upward at the obvious lie. “Violetta knows exactly where I am.”

Gil exhaled a noisy breath through his nose. Picking up the coffee, he took a sullen gulp. Vanamonde suddenly felt as though he was intruding. Silly, he knew.

Tarvek signalled for another cup, and then he continued their conversation as though a Wulfenbach hadn’t just invited himself to join them. Well. Vanamonde glanced at the rapidly dwindling stack of pizzelles. Perhaps he had been invited after all.

“This is what you do?” Gil said suddenly, one eyebrow arched at Tarvek. “You go around pumping people for information?”

Tarvek sighed. “It’s called a conversation, Gil.”

Vanamonde glanced between the two of them. Gil didn’t seem to know about the secrets he swapped with Tarvek. What information could he mean?

“Sure, it’s a conversation in which you pump him for information.”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

For a moment, Vanamonde thought the two Sparks would start to fight right there at the table. Gil genuinely seemed not to know that Tarvek had friends of the sort who liked to share Monday morning coffee with him. Well, coffee and minutiae of government. Even accounting for their mutual exchange of information, their comfortable socialization seemed beyond Gil’s understanding.

Tarvek turned toward the window, the set of his shoulders indicating displeasure. Nibbling the last of the pizzelles, Gil looked to Vanamonde with an expression of sincerest concern.

“It’s not your fault,” Tarvek said at last. “You don’t make friends so much as have them hurled at you at high velocity.”

With a rueful chuckle, Gil relaxed. “Wooster can confirm that.”

Vanamonde had specific opinions regarding British spies in his town, but if the Heterodyne was willing to overlook Mister Wooster’s unfortunate allegiances, he could do the same. He lifted his coffee cup in a salute toward Gil. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to avoid a collision.”

“That’s fair.” Gil looked around for more food.

Tarvek sat back, and as he sipped his coffee, he sent a brief glance toward Gil. Brief, but sultry enough to make Vanamonde uncomfortable from across the table. Gil failed to notice. Vanamonde set his cup down.

“The Society plans to send tribute to the Heterodyne.”

Tarvek’s posture straightened a little, his head lifted, alert. “Is that what it sounds like?”

“The Society?” Gil stirred sugar into a fresh cup of coffee. “What’s that?”

“A cult, technically.” Tarvek sipped his coffee. While accurate, the reply was unhelpful. Why did these two deliberately antagonize each other?

Gil looked to Vanamonde for a better answer. He shrugged. “They’re harmless enough. Their religion has been here since long before there was ever a town.”

“So this tribute…?”

“Yes,” Vanamonde said. “Most likely three eager new servants for the Heterodyne.”

“People?!” Sparky notes creeping into his voice, Gil half-rose from his seat. “Agatha won’t accept a gift of PEOPLE!” Tarvek kicked him under the table, then rolled his eyes toward the faces now turned to stare at them.

Vanamonde sighed. It looked like Tarvek might have to use physical force to get Gil back into his seat. Instead, the redhead raised one eyebrow.

“Won’t she? That’s a pity. The Castle tries hard, but it’s decidedly understaffed.”

Gil turned his ire on Tarvek, which seemed to be by design. “Of course YOU support a barbaric practice like—”

“Remind me again whose father used children as hostages.”

Vanamonde hid his expression behind a slow, thoughtful sip of coffee. Tarvek had taken a cheap shot at Gil, certainly, but an effective one. His momentum gone, Gil sank back into his chair. “Agatha is better than that,” he insisted, petulant rather than enraged.

“Gil.” Tarvek placed a hand on Gil’s sleeve, but Gil pulled away from him. “I think you’re misunderstanding the nature of a cult.”

Gil’s eyes narrowed in a wary glance that included Vanamonde. “What do you mean?”

Time to intercede. “To them, it’s a great honor to be chosen.” Vanamonde took another sip of his coffee, savoring it as he sorted his thoughts. “Historically, this arrangement has been one of mutual benefit. The Society gets to serve the Heterodyne, and the Heterodyne never lacks for minions, research subjects, or other household staff.” He set his cup down and fixed Gil with his most serious stare. “To be refused would be a great disgrace.”

Gil’s gloom seeped through his posture. His broad shoulders hunched over his coffee, and his head slung forward in a manner that thrust his jaw out in the largest pout Vanamonde had ever seen. When he spoke, he seemed to address the tabletop. “Does Agatha know of this… Society?”

“I believe certain Jägers took great delight in telling her that she is essentially a goddess to a small percentage of the populace.” When Tarvek nearly choked on his coffee at the remark, which he’d delivered in the mildest of tones, Vanamonde considered it a job well done.

“Does she know about… about them sending…”

In that moment, Vanamonde pitied Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. For all his terrible experiences and rough edges, he wanted to believe in absolute goodness. Such is not the way of the world. Vanamonde shrugged. “I haven’t told her yet.”

“Shouldn’t she KNOW?” Gil had started up out of his seat again. This time, Tarvek shoved him back down with an arm across the chest.

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course we’re going to tell her.”

Tarvek’s sensible-yet-abrasive reply only incensed Gil. “When?” He ground the word out through clenched teeth. “After you’ve finished your clandestine meeting?”

Tarvek scoffed into his coffee. “There’s no need to be so dramatic. Half the town knows we’re here.” He signalled to the staff for a third pot of coffee.

Gil glared. “Fine. You enjoy your coffee. I’ll tell her.” He made to rise again, but Vanamonde produced an envelope from an inner pocket, which he handed to Gil.

“This explains everything. I was going to include it in today’s paperwork.”

Gil hesitated, his hand hovering above the envelope. He eyed Vanamonde with suspicion, then glanced at Tarvek, who sighed. “For pity’s sake, Gil, did you really think we’d keep Agatha in the dark about this?” He took the envelope and placed it on the table in font of Gil. “She’d be furious, and not in a fun way.”

Vanamonde watched Gil squirm, his gaze darting from person to coffee to person. The young baron was just terrible at socializing. He’d already known, but Vanamonde found it fascinating to observe so closely, especially in juxtaposition to Tarvek, who made every interaction seem effortless.

Tarvek leaned close against Gil’s side and reached across to pour more coffee for him. Gil looked at him, startled and confused, and then, for just a moment, vulnerable. It felt more intimate than the smoldering glance Tarvek had given him earlier. Vanamonde turned to watch passersby on the street.

“Ludo has the ducks,” he remarked, watching a Jäger staggering under the weight of two enormous cages full of angry waterfowl.

“Ducks?” Gil tried to lean across Tarvek for a view of the street. Vanamonde tried to ignore Tarvek simultaneously blocking the way and sliding a hand beneath Gil’s coat. Neither had much success.

“The ones with the sharp teeth and the bad attitudes.”

“I think you just described half the city,” Gil said.

Vanamonde sent him a sharp glance. “Mechanicsburgers are perfectly pleasant.”

The three of them looked at each other. “Except for Franz,” they said at once. Then they laughed.

They chatted about the ducks for a while longer, mostly about why the birds had to be caged for their nesting season. Gil offered to improve the cages, which Vanamonde found rather thoughtful, but possibly unsafe. As the conversation meandered along, he made notes of matters to discuss with the Castle, matters to discuss with the Heterodyne, and certain points of interest for Jenka and the generals. He also doodled, and scribbled a recipe for Gruyere biscuits in the margin of his notebook. Neither of the Sparks noticed.

Tarvek kept one eye on the street, and one hand below the table. On Gil’s knee, judging by the angle of his arm. Gil and Vanamonde both pretended not to notice. Between gulps of coffee, Gil demolished a large slice of snail quiche smothered in gooey, melty brie. Abruptly, Tarvek nudged him.

“Time to go.”

Gil looked up, following his gaze out the window. Three Jägers piloted a large mechanical badger down the center of the street. They looked to be having a fantastic time, Vanamonde noted with some trepidation. Without explanation, the two Sparks charged after them.

Fair enough. He would probably hear all about in ten minutes.

Someone behind him gave his shoulder a light tap. Without turning away from the window, Vanamonde held up his hand. The papers placed into his grip felt familiar: the first of the day’s reports.

Business as usual.


End file.
